Just Another Day in War
by spotted.paw
Summary: A Native American soldier dies in Normandy. Later, his mother is given his journal.


These are some fragments of a story inspired by SPR that I have been writing since 1998. The actual story has like 100 - 150 pages, I thought I'd start out with a little bit of that.  
  
It began with "SPR, from Jackson's POV", but I discovered quite another character in my story, and I began to make it my own. Now it's still about an Army sniper in 2nd Ranger Battalion, but I guess you'll soon find out that my boy, Louis Chee, is not quite like Jackson. Not only because he's Native American. ;-)  
  
It all begins with the death letter Louis' mother receives. Some time later, comrades deliver a couple of notes he has made during his time in Europe, a journal he kept. Which would somewhat look like this . .  
  
D-Day plus 4 Ranger rally point, near Pointe du Hoc  
  
"How are you?" Upchurch, our medic, kneels down next to me and grits his teeth as he looks at my belly. "Shitty," I answer, according to the truth. I'm too tired to think of something better. Upchurch smiles at me, uncertain. With his hand he tries to wipe the sweat off of my forehead. No more towels. "Leave it, Upchurch," I say, "Sweating like a pig anyway, it's hopeless." Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. "Want something to drink?", the medic asks. Do I want a drink? Actually not. I want the pain to stop. "Yeah, please." Upchurch gets up. "I'm getting you something. I'll be right back."  
  
I think I fall asleep. Dream. Dream the same dream, over and over again. Blood is everywhere, blood and screams. I try to run, but I can't move, I'm trapped in the water. I'm trapped, and the sea is foaming over me. The foam is blood red. Faces emerge from the waves . not only faces of friends, but also, and that is much worse, those of German soldiers. German soldiers I killed today . and yesterday . and the day before . and the day before that day. They float on top of the waves, covered in blood, not dead but dying, yet still alive. Reaching for me, screaming for help. One of them yells at me, and I understand, even though he speaks German, most likely. He doesn't say much, but enough. He screams: "Who are you?" Nothing else. The question "Why?" is left standing in between us, unsaid, silent and meaningless in the end. There is no reason why. Just because. Because war. Because enemy. Because German. Because American. Because soldier. Because war. It tears my heart apart.  
  
I always wake shortly before I drown.  
  
I stare into the darkness surrounding me. Somebody took Darren's body away. Phillips is gone, too. But he just went somewhere else, I suspect. Or not. I'm cold.  
  
I can't feel my legs properly anymore. Slowly I raise my hands towards my head. Every time I move my shoulders, pain eats its way from my hips to my throat. Carefully I touch my face. It's cold, and covered in dirt and sweat. My nose is cold and numb. As I try to run my fingers through my sticky hair, pain explodes. Instinctively, my hands twitch, downwards, onto my belly, pressing onto the wound. Shit. It really hurts. I gasp for air, then I have to cough terribly. A swell of blood creeps up my throat and comes pouring out over my lips. I turn aside, cough, spit, gasp. No, please, not right now. Not yet. Just some more hours. Please, no.  
  
Then it stops. Pain fades slowly. I roll onto my back and stare into the dark sky. I would love to hear the roaring of the breakers once again. The glittering of the lights on the waves. Not only darkness. I wipe the blood from my mouth, and see Upchurch emerge from out of the darkness. Yeah, a drink would be appreciated now. But the medic brings not only a drink, but also the Sarge.  
  
"Hey Chee, how are you?" I actually think about answering that for some seconds. But then I say, as I would prefer to speak about something completely different: "I never told you guys what the word 'Hopi' means, did I?" They look at me, stern. I lick my lips. "It means something like 'Peace'. The Hopi people never went to war."  
  
"Are you still thirsty?" Upchurch wants to know. I nod, even though I'm not thirsty. He takes a knee next to me and holds out the canteen towards me. I take it and try to drink, but I can't even sit up properly. My fingers shake uncontrollably. I try to lean onto my elbows, but the blood comes spurting up my throat again. I cover my mouth with my hand, but feel it is coming out from between my fingers. The canteen falls on the ground. Upchurch picks it up. He and Sarge are looking at me and I can see they don't know what to do. I don't know, either. It's awful. I mention to Upchurch to give me back the canteen. He kneels down again and wipes blood from my mouth. Then he holds the bottle for me, stabilizing my head with his hand. I can't even drink by myself anymore. And I have the sensation that the water comes pouring out through the holes in my belly again. My body is dead, only my heart is keeping me alive. An animated corpse. Well . not much longer anymore. But even tough it hurts so much, even tough I'm so ashamed of being a burden to them all, I can't let it go, this life, my life. I have grabbed hold of it and I cling to it. I won't let it go. Can't let it go.  
  
"You know," I say to them, "What is really bad is that my death doesn't even concern me anymore. I mean, I'm dying, and there's nothing I can do about it anymore. I was able to deal with it, since the second I felt the bullet pass through my stomach. What is really awful is to know that all this will come upon my family. Death is no matter of oneself, it's a matter of the ones you leave behind. Y'know, I was always so afraid to see my loved ones die, cause it's a thing inevitable, a thing you can't escape. This is what life is coming out to - everyone has to die. Simple. Life seems like a mere dream on the way to death. I loved them with all my heart and it tore my soul into tiny little pieces even to think about the fact that we wouldn't be together forever. I knew about their fear when I decided to go to war. I didn't understand it completely then, because I thought, hell, it was my life anyway. Now I realize how much my death actually affects their lives and happiness - not mine, not mine at all. I'm sorry for that, you see, because it's so easy for me now. I won't see them die now. That even delights me in a way, because the greatest fear of my life has just vanished. But is that fair?"  
  
No answer. Is there an answer?  
  
It's like ... 4 PM. Or something. The day after, that's what I feel. It is not, actually. Invasion has rolled over us already four days ago, but to me, time has swept by while I have breathed in and out. Only once. For the first time since stepping onto French soil I have time. Time to think about something different from fighting for my life. Because alive I am. And I have to admit there's probably no one who is more surprised about that than me. I'm hurt, and I think it's serious. My head is neatly packed into a warm, humming morphine cloud, and still the pain is almost unbearable. Seems to me there's another medic by my side every second, changing bandages, looking at the blood on my belly. I can smell it pretty well, bitter but sweet at the same time. But that doesn't matter. I'm alive, and that feeling is incomparable. We landed some days ago. For some days I've been fighting in France. But only now, after lying here, calm, for some hours, I begin to understand, what has happened on that beach. My adrenaline level is only going down slowly, and only slowly I begin to collect my thoughts. It's a strange feeling, being here, not having to run all the time, not having to fear being shot all the time. I lye here, breathing in, out, close my eyes, calm. Try to relax. Only now I am able to think again. I would like to sleep, but soon my memories begin to crawl out from somewhere beneath. The more I try not to focus, the more abhorrent it gets. With all his sounds and stenches D-Day creeps back into my head, taking over my soul and mind. Until now I haven't had to reflect what has happened. There was no time to process it. So I put it away. Clung to our mission and thought about nothing else save from being a soldier. But now . .  
  
I have to get back to the beach. What else can I do? Write it down before I forget. . make that 'die'. Write it down before all strength has deserted me. I'm afraid to remember, yet more afraid to let go. Never forget, never forget Normandy.  
  
Come with me to Omaha Beach.  
  
6 June, 1944; 0402 Troop Transport Vessel New Amsterdam, main deck  
  
It's cold, and I'm sick, and I really don't want to get into that landing craft. I want to go to sleep. But not only me. "I'm seasick already," Patrick Hill, 19, Mina, Nevada, shows up next to me. He's actually pale green. I pat his shoulder. My hands are very cold. "Ah, don't worry. Grieve once it's over, not before. Maybe you should just throw up. It's gonna get better then," I say, and he doesn't even wait for me to finish the sentence. He leans over the reeling and there it goes. Say farewell to that breakfast . and dinner, it seems.  
  
Suddenly, from down below: "What the fuck-?" "Hey, you ain't go eyes in ya head?" "Who's having a brainfart up there?" "You better see to it that the Germans get you before I do!" "Eat shit, you idiot!" Hill has taken perfect aim - bull's eye, he hit a landing craft hanging on the ropes on the side of the ship, waiting to be lowered. Its passengers are not exactly pleased. I push him forward, away from the angry screams, "Go on, Pat. Easy! They'll be soaked with sea water in a couple of minutes, it's all gonna wash away. Besides, nobody saw you." At least I hope so. But anyway, I suspect that tonight nobody will have the nerve to remember this. There will be other things to remember. Even more disgusting, I'm afraid.  
  
We, that is Charlie Company, 2nd Ranger Battallion, land on Omaha Beach, sector Dog Green. I spend some ten minutes imagining how a color named dog green would possibly look like.  
  
Am I the only one with hands so cold?  
  
Somebody shouts that the next LCVP (Landing Craft Vehicle, Personnel) is ours. Somebody pushes me forward. "C Coy!" Captain Andrew Anderson, 39, Pocatello, Idaho, waves his hand. From behind, somebody puts his hand on my shoulder. Phillip Neester, 23, Hastings, Nebraska. I'm relieved, his hands are as cold as mine. "Hey Chee! Good luck." "Same to you, Nee. Keep your eyes open." We shake hands, then his red-haired head vanishes in the mass of khaki and grey, towards his own Company.  
  
I saw a guy with just that red hair, some days after the landing, amidst a group of wounded. I would have liked to talk to him, and see if it really was Nee, but approaching him I realized that his legs and one arm had been torn off, and that the rest of his body had been severely burnt. It looked so terrible I didn't have the courage to talk to him, and so I decided that it just wasn't Nee.  
  
***  
  
Do I have to say I'm hungry for ANY comments? ;-) Thoughts, criticism, give me anything. Please! 


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